


All the Roads That Lead to Rome

by Xachyn



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case 4 Spoilers, Getting Together, M/M, Missing Scene, Slow Burn, Unbeta-ed, a five plus one type of fic, ish. at least as slow burn as 4k odd words can get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xachyn/pseuds/Xachyn
Summary: “Tell me,” Laurent cajoled, running his thumb over Makoto’s wrist and it’s so, so hot, a searing graze against his skin. He’s certain he’s never experienced a sunburn quite so severe before, with this sort of bone-deep ache that pierced through him. Makoto levelled an even look at Laurent, leaning in daringly until their foreheads were touching, pushing until he saw something flicker in Laurent’s expression.--aka five lies Makoto told (and one time he acted honestly)
Relationships: Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 21
Kudos: 379





	All the Roads That Lead to Rome

I.

Makoto leaned into the beach instead of climbing back up, hot sand scratching at the tip of his ears as he stretched an arm across his face to shield his eyes from the sun. He’s certain he had a sunburn - there’s a searing heat that sprawled across his skin where it was exposed to the air. Somewhere nearby, Abigail snorted at his inelegance before moving away, footsteps light despite the shuffle of feet against sand. Makoto’s not sure how anyone could wake up unexpectedly in a hammock and not fall off in a panic. 

Laurent laughed lazily and sat down next to him, smelling like sea and his characteristic cologne of musk and citrus. Makoto resisted the urge to breathe in deeply by the lungful, waiting for the momentary adrenaline to subside as he tempered his breathing.

“Didn’t you have fun?” 

“Hell no,” Makoto scowled, “I really thought you and Abby died.” 

“I’m touched. Were you bothered by my demise?” 

“Absolutely not.” Makoto lied as he scowled at the sky overhead. Moving his arm, he opened his eyes to the vast expanse of bright blue, the glare of the sun filtered through the leaves of the palm tree next to them. 

“Too bad.” Laurent said, humming to himself. 

Makoto turned to look at him. Laurent was drenched, his hair slicked back from sea water, skin golden in the sun. Makoto sat up slowly, reaching out to pick an errant piece of seaweed out from Laurent’s hair and flicking it away. Before he could pull back, however, Laurent caught hold of his wrist, gentle enough to be benign, but firm enough to hold him in place. Makoto’s eyes narrowed.

“What?” 

“Thank you,” Laurent said, almost sincere. Makoto’s not sure what Laurent was thanking him for, so he scowled to hide the growing warmth rising from his neck. It’s the sunburn. He’s certain. Laurent looked pleased for some reason, and it annoyed Makoto to no end so he sneered in response.

"Does nothing ever faze you? You know, for a moment, I even thought-” he paused. “Nevermind. Forget it.” 

“You thought what?” Laurent leaned in, close enough that Makoto could recognise his own outline mirrored in Laurent’s eyes. Makoto swallowed. 

“Nothing,” he snapped, turning away because it was too much to be crowded in like this by Laurent’s overwhelming presence. And besides, Laurent didn’t deserve the knowledge that for a moment, Makoto had thought of him as a hero, protecting Abby like that. Especially when it all turned out to be one huge act. 

“Tell me,” Laurent cajoled, running his thumb over Makoto’s wrist and it’s so, _so_ hot, a searing graze against his skin. He’s certain he’s never experienced a sunburn quite so severe before, with this sort of bone-deep ache that pierced through him. Makoto levelled an even look at Laurent, leaning in daringly until their foreheads were touching, pushing until he saw something flicker in Laurent’s expression.

“For a moment, I thought,” Makoto said slowly, each syllable overloaded with too much of an unnamed emotion, held back like a lid on a boiling pot, that insignificant bit of contact between the two of them holding him steady, and hopefully Laurent couldn’t hear the beat of his heart like this, “You truly were the biggest bastard of all time.” 

He broke away easily as Laurent laughed.

“You’re really adorable,” Laurent said, smiling at him, and it’s a compliment that Makoto was not fully comfortable with for inexplicable reasons.

* * *

II. 

The bed at the Marina Bay Sands was objectively more comfortable than any bed that he had ever slept in - that was a fact. It was high, thick, and the right amount of springy without compromising on softness, with a luxurious down duvet lined with silken sheets that drained away the weariness of the day on touch. That Makoto had to share it with Laurent due to supposed ‘logistical constraints’ made for a much less comfortable experience - that was arguably a fact. That Cynthia and Abby had to share a bed was an irrelevant fact. Laurent could sleep on the couch for all he cared. 

It is a specific and particular brand of torture, then, to be lying in this incredibly comfortable bed for the last - Makoto glanced at the large clock on the wall - two hours, after stubbornly proclaiming to the group that he was far too exhausted from the show he had to put on for the Ibrahim brothers, and retreated into their shared room without dinner to avoid having to deal with any interaction whatsoever. He’s exhausted, for sure, and more than slightly annoyed by the change of plans that saw him dragged into playing an active role in the scam. 

That Laurent was the primary target of his frustration was only fair, and Makoto allowed himself - forced himself, even - to stay rightly pissed at the blond bastard, because if he didn’t-

The door to their shared bedroom slid open, pouring warm lighting from the hallway into the dark space, and Makoto was grateful that he was facing the other way. He closed his eyes and kept his form prone, exhaling gently and slowly, the way he used to feign sleep when his mother would check in on him. There’s a rustle of fabric and light footsteps as someone made their way towards the bed, the soft hints of amber and bergamot were telling of whom. 

Makoto remained still, even as something inside of him tensed. 

“Makoto,” Laurent’s voice said, and Makoto resisted the urge to react because that,  _that_ was new, and he’s always known the bastard mispronounced his name on purpose, but his thoughts were interrupted again by the faintest of touch on his forehead, so light that Makoto thought he must have imagined it. Laurent’s fingers threaded gently through Makoto’s hair, and Makoto was conflicted between lying still and letting this surprising comfort continue, or admitting that he wasn’t really asleep so he could tell Laurent off for being a weird creepy pervert.

He doesn’t know how long it continued for, but without anything else to focus on except the way Laurent was brushing his hair, Makoto was made terribly aware of how tender Laurent’s touch was, so careful and reverent and almost… afraid?

“Thank you for doing this,” Laurent’s said eventually, his voice the ghost of a whisper, “You are so wonderful and brave.” 

Makoto was on the verge of screeching with disbelief because there was no way this was Laurent, that it had to be some impostor dressed up in Laurent’s body doing non-Laurent-y things. The hand pulled away and there’s suddenly a cold, too-long gap that left Makoto wanting, a gap that’s quickly filled in by something warm and slightly chapped pressing against his forehead, a body leaning carefully over him. 

Makoto’s breath stilled, despite his best efforts. 

Laurent moved away, and drew the sheets tighter around Makoto in a gesture of unexpected affection.

“Sleep well,” Laurent said, and he left, leaving Makoto alone to deal with the mess of emotions and a rapidly beating heart that rushed to fill the space where his anger was.

* * *

III. 

Despite the long winds of winter chill cutting across his cheek and his coat forgotten, Makoto couldn’t help himself but pace up and down along the boardwalk some fifteen minutes away from the cafe. The large, lungful gulps of sea-drenched air did little to ease the growing tension in his head.

Twenty million Euros. 

_Twenty million Euros._

Twenty million Euros, that he had effectively taken away from Sebastian and Marie because of his arrogance. He thought his experiences in Los Angeles and Singapore had adequately humbled him and weaned him off his self-perception of being a master con-man, a genius, but clearly, all of that hadn’t been enough. 

Twenty. Fucking. Million. Euros.

“Aren’t you cold out here?” 

Makoto spun around, coming to glare fiercely at Laurent’s perpetually smug face.

“You! This was all your fault!” Makoto snapped, desperate for something to direct his fury, and God had thought to send Laurent in his stead, “You said it was some crap shit painting by some crap shit artist!” 

It’s a weak foundation for his anger, woven mostly out of excuses Makoto told himself to feel better about the situation.

Laurent raised an eyebrow, mirth still playing on his mouth.

“Not quite my choice of words,” Laurent said smoothly, “But I suppose I did say something to that effect.” 

Makoto rolled his eyes dramatically with the hope that Laurent would take note. The blond bastard only laughed, and Makoto wondered if the man might actually thrive off his misery. 

In the distance, waves crashed against the breakwater, the shrill calls of seagulls echoing into the night. Overhead, the bright full moon cast its reflection against the mostly calm sea, bathing the port in an ethereal, pale light. It really was a beautiful city, despite everything that had happened.

“Here,” Laurent said, pressing a cold metal tumbler into Makoto’s hands. Makoto stared at it, waiting for an explanation. When Laurent said nothing, he unscrewed it gingerly, brows furrowed in caution as if in anticipation of some unexpected trick. 

Instead, he found himself inhaling the deep roasted scents of freshly brewed coffee. Deciding that poison wasn’t really Laurent’s style and that the cold winter bluster was starting to wear down on him, Makoto took a tentative sip. The warm liquid was bold, a lingering warmth that persisted even as he swallowed. 

“Good body,” Makoto appraised, “Strong lemony aftertaste. Clean.” He took a second sip, “Feels… different. Where did you get this?”

“I made it,” Laurent said lightly, watching Makoto with an intensity that could make him shudder.

“You? Really?” Makoto scoffed instead, pushing away the strangely familiar feelings that were starting to rise, the feelings with no label on it, “I suppose you _are_ French, after all.” 

Laurent laughed, and it’s a light, pleasant sound that filled the air between them. Makoto wasn’t sure what he said that was so funny, so he turned away to slowly drain the coffee instead, eyes watching the various masts of the different boats before them. In the pale moonlight, they gleamed, bobbing gently like blinding stars fading in and out of existence. He appreciated how the warmth of the coffee slowly took over and spread through his limbs, chasing away the frigid chill in his digits. 

It’s refreshing in a contradictory way, much like Laurent himself. Somehow both rejuvenating yet comforting at once, somehow both citrus and earth.

“I don’t know what to do,” Makoto said suddenly, miserably, mostly involuntarily, “Sebastian and Marie deserved better than what I gave them.” 

“We’ll figure something out,” Laurent said, like it was his problem as well. Like it wasn’t purely Makoto’s egoism and narrow tunnel vision that caused this massive mistake to begin with.

Makoto snorted without much heat behind it. He’s just tired now, exhausted from his anger at himself. 

“Winters in Europe can be quite unforgiving,” Laurent said with an alien gentleness, and then in one smooth motion, he was pressed up against Makoto, pulling the lilac scarf from his neck and wrapping it around Makoto instead. The cashmere wool that brushed his cheek was soft, but more overwhelming for him was how close Laurent was, his senses overloaded as he’s overly conscious of every detail on the other man. His eyes fell to meet Laurent’s chest, close enough to trace the invisible hemlines of his expensive coat, to watch the rise and fall in each breath he took. Makoto’s own lungs were filled with Laurent’s cologne and the lingering scent of coffee, their breathing almost in seeming tandem. 

“Take care not to fall sick,” Laurent finished, but not quite stepping away, the scarf snug around Makoto in a neat knot. This close, under the moonlit sky and the warm light of the street lamp, Makoto was witness to the uncharacteristic lines apparent on Laurent's face, the tell-tale, day-old signs of concealer that hid familiar marks of sleepless nights, the ghost of a furrowed brow. This close, Makoto thought, Laurent suddenly seemed so much less youthful and far more exhausted and worn. It’s strangely intimate, this sight that Makoto didn’t think anyone else had seen, like peeking behind the curtains after a concert to see a rockstar slumped over in his chair.

Briefly, in this stolen minute, Laurent almost seemed vulnerable.

"We should go," Laurent said, pulling away with finality, shattering the tension between them.

Struck somewhere between numb and overheating, Makoto barely remembered the walk back.

* * *

IV.

Makoto collapsed onto the boat deck to feel the lingering warmth of the boat’s metal frame through the fabric of his shirt, pressed up against his back. He was exhausted, as if the explosion of emotional turmoil he had been put through over the last few months have drained him so thoroughly of the ability to feel. He wanted one good drink and a smoke to forget all of this, another buried memory to never surface again.

Next to him, Laurent leaned against the railing of the boat, his frame blocking out the last bit of sunlight as Makoto was cast in his shadow. 

How symbolic, he supposed. 

“You’re in the way.” Makoto snapped waspishly.

Laurent only laughed. It’s one of his more annoying traits, his tendency to laugh even when Makoto wasn't making any jokes, right up there alongside his propensity for manipulation, his sociopathic, single-minded, fixation and inability to just move on. Makoto watched the way Laurent ran his fingers through his hair, remembering the way they felt against his skin, that one moment so many years ago. The sea breeze nipped at them, his clothes fluttering in the breeze, and in that moment, once again, Laurent somehow seemed so much more distant, so much larger than life. 

It’s stupid. 

"Do you hate me?" Laurent mused aloud without looking at him.

Makoto scowled. Yes, he wanted to say. Yes, because you're a self-centered bastard. Yes, because you've ruined my fucking life. Yes, because you have no respect for me or regard for my well-being despite the pretences you've built up. Yes, because no matter what you say, I will always be second place, like I am undeserving of more.

Instead, he remained silent.

"I'm not surprised," Laurent concluded sagely, with all the gravitas of a man that had figured out the secrets to the universe. 

Makoto scoffed, and let Laurent believe that. 

Because what Laurent didn’t know was that Makoto could finally put a label to all the painful feelings Laurent incited in him. Because Makoto had finally realised that, despite himself, he's looking at Laurent the way his mother used to look at Ozaki, with that frustrating sense of undeserved awe and affection, like he’s hung the moon and dotted the sky with stars. Because he had finally realised that he could hardly go a day without thinking about what Laurent would say about such and such, or how Laurent would react or what Laurent would do or what Laurent would like, and it was not unlike having a selfish ghost that persisted impatiently in the periphery of his mind. Makoto was a victim of Stockholm Syndrome in his own head, because, despite everything, there was a part of him that still wanted to forgive Laurent, the weak, hopeless, sentimental part of him that desperately wanted all the tender moments between to be real, to have meant something.

How could he let go? Laurent was a paradox stretched across two dimensions, somehow simultaneously the best and worst things to happen to him. 

There’s a question that stung against the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know if Laurent would do the same for him, to throw away everything the way he did for Dorothy, but he’s too afraid to ask. 

The pitiful heart of a woman, so to speak. Makoto was not envious of a dead woman. Not in the slightest.

Instead, he closed his eyes and let the fading sun wash off the sins etched into him.

* * *

V.

"Hey. Are you bored yet?"

Makoto snorted. "This is a surprise." 

He offered a short, apologetic nod to the farm owner and slipped outside into the warm sun of the Okinawan countryside. A soft wind had picked up, sending the tall plants swaying gently in the breeze and grazing against his bare ankles.

"That I called?"

"Sure." Makoto lied, testy from the interruption, as if he had not spent the last few days inconspicuously checking his phone and wondering if and when he would hear from Laurent again. Actually, on that note, "This is the first time you've had the decency to actually call me instead of manifesting some absurd scheme to catch me right where you want me."

"I thought it might do to start this new chapter on a different tone." There's the distinct sound of distant cheering in the background, the vague voice of a man addressing a crowd through loudspeakers. Makoto had deliberately avoided any information on where Laurent would be, and was not about to change his mind now.

“A change of heart? It’s only been three weeks.” 

There’s a short, wooden bench outside of the hut. Makoto settled down on it gingerly, the small enamel cup in his hand held out as he wobbled slightly on his seat. The farmer’s radio was set to the local station, the quiet tones of some unknown DJ’s voice sounding through it in cool, static reverberations. He waited for Laurent to say the right words. In some weird, twisted way, he had missed Laurent. Makoto needed to know if it was reciprocated. 

Laurent, though, true to form, had always refused to play by Makoto’s rules. 

“How is Okinawa?” 

“Great,” he said honestly, “much better without you here.” 

That last part stumbled closer to a lie. 

Laurent laughed, and there’s a particular comfort in that. Like the sense that despite the growing chasm in his heart, despite the overwhelming expanse of the world before him, there was a secure understanding that things would somehow, eventually, turn out fine. It’s not the worst feeling, Makoto thought, sitting out here in the fresh air of the countryside, a solid cup of coffee in his hands and Laurent kept at a distance but still a call away. Like he was finally equipped with all of the right things to take on the world. 

Neither of them said anything for a while, just the sound of radio noise and distant cheering filling the space between them. 

“You should come to Japan one day,” Makoto said, his mouth running ahead of his brain, his heart running ahead of his mouth, “properly, that is.”

On the other end, Laurent hummed, “I’ve heard there was a famous castle in Osaka.” 

“There are tons of them around here,” Makoto said offhandedly, unsure of which one Laurent was talking about, “but you have to leave your bastardness behind.”

“What if it’s integral to my personality?” Even without being on a video call, even without Laurent being there in person, Makoto could imagine every line on his face as he said it, every quirk on his lips, every smug twinkle in his eyes, trace the way his hand would come to rest on his hip as he would shrug in cool nonchalance.

“Especially if it’s integral to your personality,” Makoto affirmed, “Not now, though.” 

“One day, then,” Laurent said.

“One day.” 

It sounded like a promise.

* * *

\+ 1

The hot summer sun flared overhead, merciless in its exertion. 

Makoto stood outside the gate of Osaka Kansai Airport, surveying the landscape behind tinted lenses. The shirt he was wearing was far too large for him, and even though he's certain that he blended in quite well with the throngs of tourists, the way the pink fabric hung off his frame dwarfed him. Carefully, he folded the hem of the sleeves neatly so it fell closer to his mid-arm than his elbow. He's seen this in a magazine. 

Laurent was easy to spot, and Makoto remained still, unmoving, until Laurent made eye contact. It didn't take long - the bright colour of his shirt saw to that. Laurent headed towards his direction, moving too slowly for Makoto's liking, so he folded his arms in an obvious show of dissatisfaction and impatience. Undeterred, Laurent navigated carefully through the crowd, his eyes set on Makoto in an unreadable expression until the two of them were only an arm’s length away from each other. Makoto waited, his breath held tight in his chest. Laurent only raised an eyebrow, mirth dancing across his lips. 

"I wondered where my shirt went," Laurent said casually. 

Makoto smirked, exhaling the tension in him like there wasn’t a year-long gap between the last time they saw each other on that boat, like he hadn’t stolen this shirt out of Laurent’s suitcase and tucked it away at the bottom of his backpack as he travelled the world in the last three hundred and seventy-nine days. Time was an odd concept. The days were short but the months too long. "Problem?"

"Not in the slightest," Laurent assured, brushing away invisible dust on Makoto's shoulder. 

"Hope you're not too tired to drive." Makoto jeered, tossing a set of keys at Laurent who caught them with deft accuracy. 

The car that sat in wait was a bright red Lexus convertible. It's not unlike the car that Laurent drove many years back in Los Angeles. Laurent considered it thoughtfully, and Makoto memorised every line of that expression to unpack later.

"Surprising choice," Laurent said eventually, sounding not at all disapproving. 

"I live to astound," Makoto remarked drily as he slipped into the passenger's seat. That new car smell lingered, of fresh leather and wax polish. He noted with mild annoyance that even though the car that he had rented was a brand new model, Laurent seemed right at home, finding his way amongst the knobs and dials with surprising ease.

"And where might we be headed?" 

"North."

There was, of course, absolutely no plan whatsoever. There were no hotel reservations made, no itinerary decided, and no understanding of the Kansai region apart from a cursory understanding from his Japanese upbringing. Just two men, and this ridiculously flashy car with a small, carry-on suitcase each. Makoto had always travelled light, and despite Laurent's appearance, it seemed that he was the same.

After all the sights Makoto had seen around the world, it was time to make new ones back home to overwrite the bitterness of his memories here. 

“I have one request for a stopover,” Laurent said as he started the engine. 

Makoto raised an eyebrow with suspicion.

“Where?” 

“You’ll see.” 

Makoto sighed. Chalk it up to Laurent to interrupt his plans for a no-plan trip with a plan. 

“Fine,” Makoto grumbled as he settled into the car, his feet propped up on the dashboard just to be annoying, “But I’m calling the shots after, got it?” 

As usual, Laurent only laughed.

The silence in the car was filled only by engine sounds and traffic noise, not unlike that first day in Los Angeles together. It's odd - the mood was somehow both familiar and foreign at once. Laurent drove like there wasn't one year's worth of radio silence between them, where each piece of information about one another was painstakingly captured through the grapevine of Cynthia and/or Abigail, easily settling them back in that peaceful quiet that persisted whenever they were alone together, a silent conversation of unspoken words. 

Makoto wondered if Laurent understood the message he was sending him, this letter written in action and signs. Just the two of them in this red car, like how it all began, the rush of summer colours existing beyond the space between them.

If Laurent recognised it, he said nothing, letting the silence lapse over them in his single-minded drive towards whatever destination he had in mind.

In the end, his request turned out to be disappointingly mundane. 

“Osaka Castle?” Makoto asked as they pulled into the car park of the imposing building. It’s a popular sightseeing spot, to be sure; it’s just not what he had expected Laurent to specifically ask for. 

Laurent hummed as the car came to a stop, “Let’s get to the top.” 

They go through the motions of being tourists, standing in the ticket queue with overpriced bottles of iced tea to take the edge off the summer heat and filtering through the gates with sluggish energy, caught between crowds of students on break and large Chinese tour groups. They stop in front of every display, Laurent peppering him with all sorts of questions about feudal Japan and the Tokugawa clan. Makoto was only too happy to provide, and it’s several hours before they finally made it to the balcony of the top floor of the castle. 

The fresh air was welcoming, and they found a mostly empty spot that overlooked the city, taking in the sights. They’ve spent enough time in the castle’s museum that the sunset hues of bright orange and pink bled across the sky, soft watercolour shades that bathed the skyline in a warm glow. 

Wordlessly, Laurent placed something on the bannister, the soft  _clack_ drawing Makoto’s attention towards it. 

Makoto stared. Staring back was the familiar, grim face of Toyotomi Hideyoshi on the little green figurine Laurent had set down, the expanse of Osaka behind it as its backdrop.

"Is that-" his hand reached out, fingers shakily running over its slightly worn edges, tracing the path someone else's - _Laurent’s_ \- fingers had run over, where the green paint had started to rub off and the sharp lines of the figurine now smooth, "why do you-"

"Did you forget?" Laurent said, looking past the toy, looking at _him,_ like it was obvious, the answers written out in bright ink on blank paper, _"_ You gave it to me _."_

In his hand, the figurine was warm. 

“And you kept it,” Makoto said aloud, mostly to himself. 

“Didn’t you hear?” Laurent cocked his head slightly, “I am apparently a stubborn bastard that has a hard time letting things go.” 

“Is that so?”

“You were not the only one left pining during our time apart.” 

Makoto scoffed. “And what makes you think I did anything like that?” 

Laurent leaned in slightly, fingering the collar on the pink, floral shirt Makoto was wearing. _His_ _shirt_. “I have a few thoughts.” 

Across from him, in this cramped balcony surrounded by too many people, Laurent stood there in Makoto’s space, basking in some incomprehensible smugness. The tittering tourists became a distant point in his periphery, and Makoto swallowed the inflamed emotions caught in his throat so he could speak with a steady tone.

"Someone," Makoto said, glaring at the way Laurent held himself, "should bring you back down to earth."

Laurent's head tilted challengingly. "Is that so? And how do you propose to do that?"

"I can think of something I should have done a long time ago." Makoto grabbed a fistful of Laurent's shirt to pull him closer until they were face to face.

If Laurent could hear the sounds of his too-fast beating heart like Makoto could, then that was fine too, because Laurent deserved to finally take responsibility for all the feelings he had encumbered Makoto with. There’s a glint in Laurent’s eye, and Makoto smirked, pressing their lips together and there, he found that they were a perfect fit, like finally finding belonging after years of mere existence.

The quiet gasp of surprise from Laurent was only the cherry on top.

**Author's Note:**

> this took too many weeks for what it was but here we are
> 
> also apparently I can't stop saying "but here we are" 
> 
> but here we are
> 
> say hi to me on twitter @exactlyxachyn for extended author notes or tumblr @xachyn for no reason other than to boost my follower count


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